


Shades

by merelyafigment, visionofblue (merelyafigment)



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29835168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/merelyafigment, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/visionofblue
Summary: Miguel Alvarez is roped into an art therapy class, and finds himself drawn to a certain color. He's also not alone. (Set post-series.)
Relationships: Miguel Alvarez/Ryan O'Reily
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	Shades

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LunaDeSangre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/gifts).



> **Author's Notes:** For [Lunadesangre](/users/Lunadesangre), whose Ryan/Miguel I so enjoy. Unfortunately, it is neither happy, nor does it contain Cyril, but as I wrote it, it stubbornly insisted it was for you. Feel free to not like it, or ignore it, since it is coming at you unprompted. (It wasn't inspired by your oz_magi prompt at all actually, since that was already filled properly in a lovely fashion by someone else. I've just been weirdly into "art class in Oz" ideas since even before Magi.)
> 
>  **Edited 3/7/2021:** added a paragraph, because something I didn't make clear enough was bugging me.

It was messy as hell, but it's not like that bothered Miguel. Was just paint, cool and slick and getting everywhere. Tiny neglected smears that never made it to the paper were already starting to dry and tighten in the crevices between his fingers, even though he'd only been at it for like five minutes. 

Green. Just green, darker where it was still wet, lighter where it was drying and on the page. Smeared in a shape that -- let's just call it a fucking hill, okay? ... Two hills, arcing side by side, one falling into the rise of the next. 

Look, they couldn't yell at him for them looking like tits, because tits. Weren't. Green. 

Miguel hadn't gone into it with that plan of defense, or any plan at all. Hadn't even been thinking of tits. (Until now.) He'd picked the green his hands were covered in now, even a mysterious little spot partially up on the underside of his forearm, just _because_. No reason. And well, green went with like grass and nature shit, so he'd started with the ground, with mounds that... they weren't meant to be tits, honest. 

He just wasn't used to focusing anymore, because well, it was painful and it was pointless. Miguel wasn't even high right now, though, so he was forced to be somewhat present. To use his brain, to feel the dull weight of his breaths trapped behind walls that all looked the same, as much as he was _trying_ to coast. It was harder without the pills. Everything was so fucking hard, and fucking tiresome. But maybe if he narrowed his focus. Paint. Page. Hills. Didn't think beyond the classroom, beyond the next half hour. 

He'd be greeted again with (his) Destiny when it was over, and he could blur it all away. 

Not now, though. Now he just had to focus on the feel of the paint drying on his skin, and how it was probably a good idea to fight the sudden urge to draw little twin bushes that looked like nipples on the top of his unfortunate looking hills. That? Was the only plan and idea he needed to have. (Everything else was pointless, remember.) 

He'd already gotten a lecture, when he'd been forced to take this insane art therapy class. (No way was this clueless, hesitant teacher either a therapist or an artist, but the stingy ass correctional system got what they barely paid for. Hell, he was probably a student or a volunteer.) Miguel had figured, in one brief moment of his head breaking just above murky water, that maybe he'd take an hour long break from riding the flow of his Destiny to pretend to behave. Maybe it would get McManus and Mukada off his fucking dick. (Where the damn double M's were starting to set up shop, after watching him float for too many months.) 

Green... oh shit. Had he picked it because of the Destiny? Little pills, constantly flowing onto his tongue from painted nails, bitter chalky bite with just a taste of salt. 

Nah. 

Different shade. Or maybe just... didn't remind him of that. Reminded him of-- 

"Christ. You're a fucking mess." The asshole bitching next to him was also not high, if Miguel had to guess. 

Was a little surprising, though, to hear O'Reily like that -- somewhat aware, engaged, and annoyed. Still sounded more tired than he used to, though. Like he was still an asshole, but with half of the energy he used to have for it. 

"Fuck off, O'Reily." The dismissal flowed out casually, without heat. He was streaking fingers across his hills, trying to place the shifting shades of it, what it reminded him of. 

Let himself just feel it, because it was the only thing real he'd felt in awhile. And it was just crafting shit, it was just painting. Feeling it wouldn't hurt him. 

Wet, dry. 

Paper, skin. 

Miguel looked up and over, though, after he'd rubbed most of the wet onto the dry. (Felt it left behind, tightening more, crumbling and cracking on his skin.) 

O'Reily's-- huh, there was only one O'Reily now, it occurred to him. No, wait. There were still two, the set had just changed. One was an old racist shithead now, and honestly, that's all Miguel thought of him as -- not his name, not an O'Reily. Just an angry old bastard rattling around haunting the place. 

The real O'Reily was also kind of a vicious bastard, but it was -- he was just different. Especially now, quiet and... just _different_ , in a way that tugged on Miguel's waning attention. O'Reily always had caught his attention, though, hadn't he? He'd always been interesting to Miguel, even before he'd changed. (Before they'd both changed, fading into the background, apart. Apart from everything.) 

The one true O'Reily's page was blank. His hands were colorlessly pale, untouched and dry, and he lounged back in his chair, like he was putting distance between him and the paints and page. 

"You haven't done dick yet. Real boring, O'Reily." Miguel remarked casually, because it was kind of-- when he was high, he could just float, above the boredom, feeling the dull nothingness in a different way. Didn't need to talk, didn't need company, when he had the D in his veins. (He always had company anyway, but he could ignore it. And his glittery vulture had mysteriously not been allowed in the class. Must've been the work of the Double M's again.) 

But now? He had his fucked up hills, and painting silently by himself was kind of, yeah, as boring as O'Reily's untouched page. Okay fine, not _that_ boring, because that was completely blank. But boring enough that Miguel could feel the hollowness to everything, enough to make Miguel want to drift towards talking this time. Yep, you could tell he wasn't high, because he actually _wanted_ something, even if it was only barely. (Never ended well for him, wanting something.) 

But there was something about-- O'Reily was checking out of everything too, maybe, like Miguel had been. (O'Reily was worn down, too. Beaten down. Exhausted. Maybe.) So maybe it was safer or-- fuck it, that was too much thinking. Focus on O'Reily in the here and now, where he was surprisingly talking, too. 

"Nice to see you're having fun there, amigo. But I'm not fucking finger painting, because I'm not four." 

Actually, Miguel was wrong about O'Reily's hands having no color -- the color was just permanent. That's right, Ryan had that small tat. The little shamrock, with the traditional drop of blood. Red and... 

...green. Huh. 

O'Reily didn't even look like he usually did, definitely not like he used to. Not quite poured into his chair easy and boneless, like he owned every space and sprawled where he pleased. Sure, guy still sort of sat like he scoffed at how furniture was supposed to be used, and as if he had a ten inch cock he had to make room for or something, but there was a slight tension that wasn't usually there before. His not drawing? Didn't feel bored and bitchy. It felt pointed. 

Why bother to show up for the class if you were just going to glare at your stupid ass still-sealed finger-paints? It was kiddie bullshit they were stuck with because they weren't trusted with paintbrushes with their long slender shafts good for poking into tender bits around Mr. Twitchy the Art Therapy Guy, and-- _fuck_. Miguel couldn't remember, had Cyril liked to color and draw? 

Might've reminded O'Reily of-- oh shit. If even Miguel, in his currently detached state, could fucking figure out this coloring bullshit might bring up painful memories of the man's dead brother, why couldn't the numbnuts in charge who were _supposed_ to be paying attention have seen that? Instead of forcing him in here, too. Because no way had O'Reily volunteered. He sort of... he sort of just went where he was nudged now, though. (Going with the flow, like Miguel was doing.) Well, when it was the fuckers in charge doing the nudging, or his shitty Pops. Other inmates? Them he ignored, and there was just enough rumor in the air of Hacks with broken hips, enemies choked, flambéed, shredded from glass, or drowned, that combined with the hint of steel that sometimes still flashed in detached dead eyes, people steered mostly clear. 

O'Reily's eyes. Yeah, they looked like a horror movie. Not the jump-scare kind, the kind with moving corpses lacking soul. Blank, without a spark. Cold and dead as the hearts behind the matching stone in here. And... 

...huh. Green. 

Miguel looked from them to the white blank page those dull green eyes were staring through, like a pissy zombie, because that way Miguel wasn't looking at the green on _his_ paper (on his skin) and wondering why he'd chosen it first. 

Miguel couldn't get O'Reily out of the class (hell, he hadn't been able to keep his own ass out) but maybe he could distract Ryan from the thoughts killing the light in his eyes. Make him focus on something simple, an action. Even if it was finger-painting, which... at least Miguel was pretty sure Cyril had never done _exactly_ that in here, would've been too messy out in the quad instead of the classroom. If Miguel could get O'Reily to focus on the actual task, on talking, maybe he wouldn't lose himself in the association as much? Besides, if O'Reily didn't draw _anything_ they'd just ride him harder. Make him explain why, when maybe that wasn't for them to hear. (Sister Pete wasn't in the class now, but she was behind it, and would sure as hell be talking about it in session.)

"Look, man -- you gotta draw something, or they'll like, fucking work harder to get through to you." He gestured at the perfectly untouched sheet of paper in front of O'Reily. "Trust me. Stubborn? Doesn't fucking work with the nun and the priest. Just draw something off the wall enough they'll leave you alone 'cause they won't want to admit they can't figure out what it means." Miguel suggested, because really, he wasn't just drawing hills because he'd randomly picked green as his first color. (Or because he'd maybe never see them again. No fresh rolling earth, just little perfect pills that kept _him_ rolling.) Miguel refocused on O'Reily. On the actual man he was talking to, the one who looked almost as hardened as ever in a strange new way, tired and half gone from his old watchful, machinating self. Better give this fucker some suggestions, because he might be the type that didn't know what innocent looked like. "But not all murdery, though. Draw like a flower or the moon or something. 'Cause so bland it might mean whatever they want might work too. Not a clown. Only Gacy motherfuckers draw clowns. That'll just cause more problems." 

Green, but slightly less dull when they focused on him with the tilt of O'Reily's head, matching the smallest upward tilt of his mouth in a smirk. "Is that why you're drawing leprechaun tits? To confuse 'em?" 

"They're not fucking--" Miguel quickly lowered his voice, didn't want Professor Shaky noticing him. "They're not tits. They're hills." 

Which, yeah, he was pretty sure that's what he'd been trying for at first. 

"What kind of pathetic ass hill--" O'Reily, arms crossed even as he slumped back in his chair, looked more like himself than he had in months. When he was being a dick, of course. Had it been months? Miguel hadn't been really looking, either, had he? Had he even registered the bus fumes and the change of scenery? Had he noted one fucking thing since more fumes had brought him back to Oz? 

(Green. Had he noticed--) 

Miguel scoffed to break off that thought, to focus on the gaze that was actually alive and on him for a second. (While he was actually alive for a second, breathing something other than nail polish fumes and D.) "What? You can do better? With your minimalist snowstorm there, maybe you should quit fucking judging." 

O'Reily's not quite a sneer was lazy but breathing something other than fumes, maybe, for a second. "It's blank because I left it blank. I wasn't trying and failing like--" 

Miguel just grabbed, without thinking. 

Like he used to just shove, bored and needing a distraction-- fuck, that was right -- Miguel had clipped Ryan with his shoulder, maybe more than once, over the years. Just because he could. Frisked him that time, too-- shit. Miguel hadn't backed off the man who never backed off. Until now. O'Reily didn't really do the wrap around and press close to talk to people thing he used to do. Maybe because he didn't really talk to people anymore. 

And Miguel had backed off from everything. From trying, from breathing, from every part of still life trapped on their grey stone pages. 

_Until now_ , his hand wrapped around a hard wrist. (Not warm enough, a little more chilled than Miguel. Did O'Reily's skin feel different under the tight dry smears of paint on Miguel's own? Was he painting O'Reily, too?) 

Ryan's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move. Didn't snap, not with skin and bone, or vicious words. He looked-- the man was hard to decipher. Maybe because he'd been checked out so long. Miguel or Ryan, which did he mean? Fuck, both. It was clearly both. Miguel wasn't an idiot, just tired, and he knew there was no philosophical mystery meaning there. They were both dull and barely breathing. 

O'Reily wasn't pulling against him, his wiry strength was firm under Miguel's grip, not a pliant ragdoll, but he wasn't fighting either as Miguel guided him to the little plastic jars of paint. Blue. Miguel had always liked blue. His boys, the sky. (Both gone.) Strange, now that he was looking, maybe there was a bit of blue lurking in O'Reily's eyes, too, depending on how he shifted.

"Quit stalling and talking shit-- you can paint better than me? Then do it, _amigo_. Otherwise? I'll think you fucking suck and your mouth is just covering for your ass." 

Ryan scoffed that time, but it almost sounded like a huff of humor. Maybe. Buried deep under the dirt, maybe. "You're really trying to _goad_ me into fucking fingerpainting? You think _that_ will work? Maybe I just don't fucking care, _hermano_." 

But O'Reily? Those eyes were still on Miguel, even as he let go of the man's hand. And Miguel was half-awake today, so he could hold them steady, not float away from them. "Or maybe you just _fucking suck_." 

Miguel remembered something else. He was sort of lost in his memories instead of that blind flow today, like parts of him were annoyingly waking back up. He remembered the darkest parts of solitary that had still held some sort of distorted light (before it all got snuffed). The times when he'd been desperate. Desperate for anything but where he was. He'd seen his angel in front of him that first stint. Naked, tits out. Out of reach, but yeah. That kind of thing. Or his grandfather. All sorts of weird shit made you lift your head up in the dark. Never knew what would catch your eye when you were that lost, what you would grasp for. 

What would make you want to wake up and scrape your way out, or give up and slip further away, dig deeper. 

O'Reily wasn't slipping and digging, his fingers stayed resting on the little plastic jar Miguel had placed them on. Maybe today he saw something that made him want to reach-- to react. 

Maybe they both did. 

Or maybe the hills were just tits. Who knew? 

***  
The End

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like there might be more to this, but I'm unsure. For one thing, I really need to stop writing post-series things when I haven't watched S666 in a decade.


End file.
